Tea Time with Magnus
by SummerSkies2007
Summary: a series of drabbles on Magnus' thoughts over a cup of tea and his downward spiral leading up to Doomstar Requiem.
1. Earl Grey

Authors Notes: Do not own Dethklok.

For some stupid reason, I really like Magnus, even if he was a total asshole dickweed that stabbed and tortured the most innocent characters in the whole series. This is just a series of drabbles concerning his spirial into madness and what led him to go to such extremes.

Magnus stared out the window of his new cabin in the woods. As a councilor at the Rock-A-Rooni camp, he had his own quarters now, sparsely furnished by the company. He was allowed to bring his own belongings as well as his cat Gibson, who was content at making bird-chirping noises at a handful of blue jays that were mocking him from their bird feeder safe on the other side of the glass.

The sky overhead was a soft grey, and the landscape was washed with soft pastels of the coming spring. Winter was starting to fade a little with each drop, leaving everything dreary, but Magnus felt a little better for it. Winter was always impossibly hard on the dark haired man. The cheery consumerist holidays only served to worsen his deepening depression, the twinkling lights mocking him. The simpering cheerfulness of it all sickened him to his very core, his only relief was at the very bottle of some cheap vodka. It brought him to the very depths of himself, and he always felt like he was drowning in ink by January's flurries of snow. His whole world seemed so monochromatic-in shades of white, grey and black.

Magnus sighed, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back. His long, wavy brown hair spilled down in a thick waterfall over the edge of the rustic chair, and Magnus brought up a long fingered calloused hand to rub his face. He could feel another migraine coming on, it always did when the weather got like this. The barometric pressure was killing him.

Some days it seemed like the very pressure of the sky above was trying to crumple the towering man to the ground.

He sipped at his piping hot cup of Earl Grey thoughtfully. Earl Grey was simply the best compliment to the rainy season of early spring, he thought with a sad smile. The tea was full bodied, with an almost brooth-y feeling in the mouth, and the bergamot scent was uplifting in the dreary weather. If he had remembered to pick up some milk at the tiny store about a half hour's drive from the camp, he could have fixed himself a nice steaming London Fog, a sweet blend Magnus was fond of. It was a good, strong cup of Earl Grey blended with some vanilla syrup and a splash of milk and sugar. He used to enjoy a cup at the local bohemian café back when he was living in the Northeast coast as a college student in the early seventies. He had made a habit of going to that stupid café every morning , just so he could chat up the cute little cashier with her honey blond hair in that flipped-up little bob of hers.

Gibson stopped his chirping at the birds to crawl into the older man's lap, purring contentedly as he absent-mindedly petted him. His two-toned eyes were unfocused (truth be told, he was nearly blind in his one eye, everything was blurred on that side) as he thought about the last week. Rock-A-Rooni Rock N Roll camp was really a morbid nursing home for over-the-hill rockstars to try to earn their last few dollars before old age finally claimed them. He was sickened by the waste of talent he saw in his fellow counselors. These men, with their soft, flabby stomachs and glistening bald heads, used to be the greatest of the great, gods of rock among men. These were his contemporaries, people that he used to know on the circuit. Hell, he even hauled some of these stupid assholes to the ER when they would overdose at one of their many overblown parties at their mansions. All that talent, all that money, all that fame and glory was now reduced to fallen gods, teaching fat, middle-aged men how to play a few painfully simple songs so that they could feel special when they went home to their saggy-assed wife and asshole children.

This was the ultimate disgrace, but each morning, Magnus had to roll out of bed at six AM. He would then fix himself some porridge and tea, perhaps a crumpet with marmalade on it. He couldn't stand the greasy shit that they served at the mess hall. Bacon and eggs, with greasy hash browns might be alright once and awhile, but every day? Hell no. But it at least explained why his fellow former rock gods got so fat. He was surprised some of them were even functioning with all that cholesterol clogging their arteries. He would have to shower with them all too, in the large communal shower room. He had to admit, for someone in their fifties, he looked fairly good. But then again, he always did take care of himself better than the other rock stars.

He wasn't into the heavy drugs, or drinking nearly as much, and women, well-he had his fair share back in the day, but frankly he wasn't sex-mad like the others. He enjoyed sex, hell, who didn't?, but his type was rarely in the crowd. Fan girls were good for a quick hump, but they always left something wanting. It didn't help very few of them were his type. He adored the sexy librarian type, liked the intellectual girls in their slim fitting pencil skirts and tight fitting sweaters, their cat-eye glasses and hair in a silky bun. He also loved petite women- he was fascinated by tiny hands and feet, enjoying how his long hands could dwarf theirs, and he always loved to soak up their adoration. He used to love smiling down at them, loved how they looked at him, their slender necks having to crane all the way back, exposing the delicate column of their throat. It was such a powerful feeling. But, he hadn't been with a woman in years, hadn't been able to connect decently enough with any. Even if he did find someone, the second they knew he was ex-Dethklok, they turned on their heel and ran. It was frustrating.

Magnus poured himself another cup of tea, adding lots of raw sugar to it before stirring idly as he stared into it's rich brown depths. The scent of bergamot wafted up towards him, soothing him.

He just had to put up with this job, and try to save as much money as he could before this job eventually dried up. Music camps like this rarely lasted more then a year or two, the economy being so shitty that no one could really afford the luxury of being off work for a three day weekend to attend something as frivolous as a rock'n'roll camp.

He downed his cup of tea, and grimaced. A quick look at the clock told him it was time he rounded up this week's group of "campers". He just had to take it one day at a time.


	2. Oolong

Authors Notes: Do not own Dethklok. Lots of angsty Magnus. Yay.

Magnus sat hunched over his cup of oolong tea, slowly stirring the light tan granules of raw sugar into it, choking out a sob. A salty tear sneaked down his long, aristocratic nose and splashed into his cup. Magnus tried to blink it back, but too late.

He choked back a sob. He was so wrong thinking this stupid job was good for him. It was horrible. He felt like he would have more dignity back in his old town flipping burgers, at least no one gave two shits about who he was then. He couldn't handle it some days, the look of disgust on the slack faces of those stupid cubical-warmer campers. Stupid, regular jack-offs, who's only fucking accomplishment in life was not being still-born, was looking at him with a sickening mixture of awe and contempt. Few people ever wanted to join his group, and hell, he couldn't blame them some days. He was starting to look like an emaciated scarecrow dressed in black like a reaper. He contrasted sharply against the other fallen rock gods, who still clung to the gaudy neon colors and fashions from their days at the height of the charts. It was a comical mockery of the ghosts of themselves. Would they have done things different back then if they knew they would be still wearing the skin-tight day-glo spandex in their forties, all bald and fat? Would it have stopped them from hemorrhaging money like a miscarrying whore in a back alley way? Would it have stopped the drugs injected into every available vein? He doubted it.

He had no idea when he stabbed Nathan in the back that his entire existence would boil down to him being an ex-member of Dethklok, that that stupid title would drag around like a ball and chain. He couldn't get rid of it , and instead resigned himself to his fate.

But, he wasn't prepared for how much it hurt him some days. He had attended a prestigious four year university, he majored in music theory. He had written a thesis that ended up published in a well-known guitar magazine. He graduated with honors, the top of his class. He had been in several bands, though only Dethklok was infamous out of them all. No one cared about that. They didn't care that he could speak several languages, they didn't give to shits that he played more than just fucking guitar. He could play piano, he was talented at the harpsichord (though he wouldn't admit that to anyone else save another music major) as well as dabbled in the violin. He also painted, but he usually saved that for days when his depression would get the best of him, most of his work ending up blurred smatterings of gunmetal grey, and indigo blue. He wouldn't ever show anyone his work though, he was too proud to, he knew his works were shit.

His thoughts were interrupted with a loud thud at the door, which jolted him out of his pity-party of one. Maybe it was a camper wanting some private lessons. Whatever. He would just tell the idiot to fuck off.

Magnus wasn't prepared for the terrifying man in the silver mask to be looming in his doorway. He felt fear rip up his spin, and his knees go weak. The man reeked of blood and darkness, if that even made sense. He was positively too massive to be allowed, his arms thick as tree limbs, and he looked like someone that could crush a man's head like a overripe melon, without a thought about it.

"You." The silver masked man growled, his voice sounding like it was coming out of the bowels of hell itself. "want revenge against Dethklok.."

Magnus felt his mouth go dry.

Revenge? Of course he wanted revenge against those fucking bastards.

He nodded slowly, his eyes darting around for something to use as a weapon. He didn't think anything he owned would be useful.

"I need you to help me take them down.." the man growled, stepping into Magnus's tiny cabin. Gibson hissed, and ran away, cowering in the corner as the man crowded into the room.

Without a word the man sat down, and began to tell Magnus of his plans, of the Revengencers, and a plot to trap the band using the weakest member, Magnus's replacement, a Norwegian named Toki Wartooth.

The masked man handed over a blood-splattered piece of paper, which had down an address, along with the other specifics. He left just as abruptly as he came, leaving Magnus shaking in his chair, trying to clasp his tea cup with both hands, which only spilled droplets of the now cool tea. Some splashed onto the paper, making the blood run over the page.


	3. Rooibos

Authors Notes: Do not own Dethklok. Sorry the chapters are short, but hey, they are drabbles stitched together .

Magnus fixed himself a hot pot of rooibos tea, and was letting it seep while he strode about the room. He couldn't seem to sit still, and everything was just

Magnus was jittery, pacing back and forth in his tiny cabin. Ever since the masked man barged into his cabin a week ago, Magnus felt losing his hold on the slender rope of reality. Soon, he was going to get his revenge against the fuckers who ruined his life. He just had to go along with the plan. It wouldn't be too hard. From what he knew about the Norwegian, he was incredibly clueless, and possibly stupid. He just had to make friends and get access to Dethklok.

He hadn't really slept in the last week, he couldn't for the life of him. He felt like he had electricity dancing up and down his spine. Everything seemed more vivid to him lately, and he spent his nights rapidly painting away on the easel he had set up in the corner. He didn't give too shits if he got the inky paint on his clothes. He hadn't felt this alive in years. When his hands cramped up from painting, he would stroll about the pond, admiring the snow-white swans before inspiration would hit him again, making him dash back to his easel like a man possessed.

He felt like he was naturally high. He used to get like this sometimes, back in college, but assumed it was just part of being young and stupid, and mostly high. He felt like he was invincible, and he was socializing now with the campers, who were wide-eyed around his new-found enthusiasm in teaching. His feet found themselves at the stores, some of his money now burning a hole in his pocket. He decided, that once he got his revenge against Dethklok, he would be able to buy whatever he wanted, so he treated himself to some new shirts, a brand new pillow and a cat bed to Gibson. The consequences be damned.

More than anything else, he felt like, for the first time in too long, he was part of something bigger and better then himself. There were people like him that wanted to take down the Dethklok Empire and show the world who the band really was. They were going to pay for their crimes, which the media and courts had steadfastly ignored. He was going to pay them back the same way, but forcing them into a life of poverty and obscurity.


End file.
